Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Setting Chase down, I hand him his picture and say, “Why don’t you run into the kitchen and show Tessa your picture? I bet she’d love to see it.”
As soon as he runs off, shouting, “Tessa! Tessa, wook at what I did,” I turn to Ben, hissing, “What the heck, dude? I can’t handle a dog right now. Not with wedding season starting in two months and Margot out on maternity leave.”
“I know, I know.” He lifts his hands at his sides with one of his “we’re on the same side, remember?” smiles. That smile used to be all it took to melt my resistance to anything and everything. Now, it makes my stomach cramp. “I didn’t mean a dog at your house. I meant at ours. Radcliffe’s friend’s French bulldog just had puppies. She said she’d give us pick of the litter for half price.”
Irrational anger surges inside me, but I tamp it down, trying to think logically. “What about this summer when you’re gone for a month in France? What are you going to do with a puppy then? It seems cruel to board it for so long, but I really can’t puppy sit during the busiest catering season of the year.”
A look I can’t quite read flickers in his deep brown eyes. “We were thinking of taking it with us, actually. It’s not that hard as long as you plan ahead and make sure the rabies shots and microchipping are done on schedule. We were also thinking maybe—”
Chase runs back in giggling hysterically, chased by Tessa, who’s waggling her fingers at him. “Come here and let me hug you with my fish fingers! I’ll make you smell like a salmon steak!”
“No!” Chase giggles as he runs to hide behind my legs. “Mommy, don’t let her get me!”
“Stand back, foul beast,” I say, pretending to hold an imaginary sword. “I have the power of soap on my side.” Tessa and I sword fight for a few seconds before she clutches her side and holds a clawed hand up in surrender.
“You’ve beaten me this time,” she says in a wounded witch voice as she backs toward the kitchen. “But next time I’ll bring fish juice to spray on your sword and turn it to seaweed!” Glancing Ben’s way, she adds in a normal tone, “Hey, Ben. How’s life?”
“No complaints,” Ben says. “How about you? Looks like you guys were busy today. I drove by earlier and the front room was packed.”
Tessa laughs and rolls her eyes. “Oh, that wasn’t business. That was gossip hounds wanting to pick Mel’s brain about Aaron Boudreaux. Since she was at the hospital with him all night and all.”
Ben’s thick brows pinch together. “Oh yeah, how is he? From what I heard on the radio, it sounds like it was a serious injury.”
I nod, my stomach cramps getting worse. “Yeah, he’s not great. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone in that much pain. I felt bad for him. I’m going to head over to his grandmother’s house after work to check on them, drop off some soup and fresh bread, see if there’s anything they need me to fetch for them at the store… That kind of thing.”
“Well, give him our best. Right, Chase?”
“Wight,” Chase says seriously.
Ben smiles down at our son, holding out his arms. “Come on, bud. We need to hit the store, too, before we head home. Radcliffe’s making basil sausage pasta and we need to get the ingredients.”
“Yay, basil sausage pasta!” Chase starts to jump into Ben’s arms but turns at the last second and holds out his picture. “Here, Mommy. Don’t let Tessa touch it with her fish fingers.”
“I won’t,” I promise seriously. “And it will be in a place of pride on the fridge when we get home tomorrow. See you after school, okay?” I lean down, soaking in every second of the fierce hug my nearly three-year-old bestows upon me. Then he runs to his daddy, Ben scoops him up, and they head outside to where he’s parked in front of the Victorian cottage, I bought to expand the business a little over a year ago.
My business is growing, my son is happy and adjusting to the visitation schedule without a hitch, and all my friends and family are healthy and thriving.
I should be on top of the world.
Instead, I turn to face the product wall as Ben and Chase leave, pretending to count the number of dried split pea soup mixes and fighting tears until I’m sure they’re gone.
This is the way things are now.
They’re never going to change.
The faster I quit pouting and accept the new normal, the better. All I’m doing with this grieving, weeping, hurting shit is causing myself unnecessary pain.
But the heart wants what it wants, and mine has decided it wants to perform a dying swan ballet in my chest, complete with painful thrashing and fluttering, every time I tell my baby boy goodbye.